


Feeling For A Direction

by silentdroplets



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (almost) Cutting, (almost) Self Harm, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blind Character, Comfort, Concerned Yuri Plisetsky, Fluff, Hurt, I am sleepy oops, M/M, Yuuri goes blind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9922193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdroplets/pseuds/silentdroplets
Summary: “Viktor,” he cries out, and reaches out for his beloved. “Wh-What happened to me? Why are we here?”He feels the sudden onset of hesitance and tension. It lingers, cloying and crushing. It constricts his lungs and he finds it difficult to draw another breath.“Y-You-“ Viktor takes a shuddering inhale, “-you were injured during the Finals, and now you’ve injured your eyes and the doctor-“He feels the same grip that clutches at Viktor’s heart, digging its sharp claws into veins and vessels, drawing blood and seeking pain.“-says that you may become permanently blind if things don’t turn out well."





	

The last thing he remembers is the skid of the blades under his feet, the rush of ice, and the roar of the world whirling around him so fast he can’t make out anything at all.

Then he’s on the frigid, slick surface of the ground, smooth under the grains of broken ice, and he hears the babble of people surrounding him.

He struggles to lift his head to find out what really is happening around him and why his head is throbbing like he’s hit it somewhere.

“Yuuri!”

But nothing he does helps.

Everything goes silent.

~~~~~~

His eyes are stinging when he finally wakes.

Literally.

He sees nothing but darkness, pitch black, nothingness. It feels almost like the void he’s looked into when he’d cry, burying his face in his hands and letting the tears flow free. He’d hate for anyone to see him sobbing like a mess, but crying is a form of catharsis, somehow, to him.

Then why does this darkness seem so dubious, so vacillating?

He lifts a finger to his face, and he is surprised to feel the rough scratch of bandage wrapped firm around his head, on his eyes. He presses one finger, gently, on the sides of his eyes, and the sting comes back all at once. His finger sets nerves on fire, blazing.

His free hand clenches in a fist and gathers a small bunch of fabric under him.

Fabric?  
  
Is that a bed he’s lying on?

What happened?

Why is he in bed, with a bandage around his hurting eyes?

He attempts to peel the wool off his head, but someone taps his hand and pulls it away from his face. Get away from me, he thinks, I need to see, I need my guide.

I need Viktor, he thinks.

“No, I’m afraid you can’t take that off, Mr. Katsuki,” he hears a soft voice beside him speaking. It must belong to the same owner of the hand that pried his own away just a moment ago. “Your eyes are severely hurt, and you need a bandage to let them recover.”  
  
Hurt?  
  
He now knows the reason why his eyes are burning like hell every time he touches it, but with that current knowledge comes another waves of questions begging to be answered.

Where is he?

What happened?  
  
Where is Viktor? 

“I- Where am I?” he croaks out. He runs a hand across the fabric under him. It’s not the bed at home, where he’s safe, warm and happy.

“You’re in the hospital, dear,” comes the reply. He winces at the name - no one but Viktor’s allowed to call him that. Hearing it come from a foreign mouth just feels wrong.

Hospital bed. Where he’s unsure, unhappy, cold, shivery.

“Where’s Viktor?” he asks. He reaches for his finger and fiddles with the cold band around it. At least the ring is there. But he can’t be sure it’s the same ring. He can’t.

“He went to use the bathroom,” he hears. Okay, good, Viktor isn’t gone.

“Then-“  
  
“Yuuri!”  
  
That same voice he had heard before he had knocked himself out, before the darkness swallowed him whole and spiralled him into a column, a pillar of uncertainty.

“Viktor,” he cries out, and reaches out for his beloved. “Wh-What happened to me? Why are we here?”  
  
He feels the sudden onset of hesitance and tension. It lingers, cloying and crushing. It constricts his lungs and he finds it difficult to draw another breath.

“Y-You-“ Viktor takes a shuddering inhale, “-you were injured during the Finals, and now you’ve injured your eyes and the doctor-“  
  
He feels the same grip that clutches at Viktor’s heart, digging its sharp claws into veins and vessels, drawing blood and seeking pain.

“-says that you may become permanently blind if things don’t turn out well.”

Viktor crumbles to his side, gripping onto Yuuri’s hand, their rings clicking against each other. Yuuri thinks, maybe, that it is the same pair of rings that they had exchanged in Barcelona a while back, that nothing has changed.

The nurse beside them rises and walks out of the room to give them their space.

Yuuri sags against the strong body that holds him tight, trailing a finger across skin he cannot see. He reaches up to feel Viktor’s chin, rubbing the pads of his fingers on tears that are dripping from ice-blue eyes he can no longer admire, and he realises, that perhaps, something has changed. 

He has become a burden.

~~~~~~

_Breathe in._

_Breathe out._

_Not difficult to do._

_It is okay._

_Wandering into the bookstore like any other person - except, feeling pairs upon pairs of eyes being trained on him, staring at his back, staring at his quivering fingers, while he is heading to the back of the little store._

_Passing the racks of pens, highlighters, more pens, ink refills, erasers, yet more pens. Passing the boxes of post-its, glue sticks, blunt scissors, paper clips, rolls of tape. Passing the stacks and stacks of writing pads, journals, notebooks, graph paper pads, even more writing pads._

_To the corner where art supplies are kept._

_Paintboxes, paint, paintbrushes, so much paint. Pencils of varying shades, colouring pencils, canvases, cloth, and there._

_Bending down and tilting his head to get a better look at the metal._

_Costs a dollar or two for a single penknife with a few snap-off blade refills, costs seventy or eighty cents for ten refill blades in a pack - who the hell cares about the price._

_Picking up the cheapest - and the one that looks similar to the ones used two years back, and heading back to the front of the store. The cashier - she always smiles and comments some little bright happy thing about her customer’s purchase, like a pen or two for writing their life out, or a roll of tape for hanging something up on the walls._

_She glances at his purchase, however, and glances back at him. In that very fleeting moment, he sees the question in her eyes, bubbling on the tip of her tongue, her lips tense as though she longs to spill the words_ what are you going to do with so many blades _. But she remembers they sell it in the store for a reason, that anyone can buy it, and swallows the noises about to trip off her mouth._

_Passing him the little packet of metal while he hands her a coin. Getting back some spare change, and he stuffs the coins and packet into his wallet._

_Walk like nothing’s happened._

_No one knows you’ve got ten snap-off blades in a packet in your hand._

_No one knows._

_Feeling the eyes being attracted to him, though, their questioning looks boring holes into his back and arms and hands and face and hair and legs and everywhere he is exposed to the world._

_Hide._

_He does so and stuffs the blades into his bag and pretend nothing has ever happened._

~~~~~~

That was two years ago.

He doesn’t touch it, not after he’s met Viktor. The training he’s had to go through distracted him, and he’s never brought a single piece of metal to his skin.

Up till now.

He angles a blade he cannot see at his arm, at a vein he’s all too familiar with - covered in faint scars and lines that he can feel raised on his skin, left from years ago. Its thin, cold edge presses against warmth, freezing his heart to a point where he cannot feel anything in his mind any more.

The blade bares its teeth at its enticing target and hisses for blood and life, the very essence it has drawn from the same skin just two years ago.

Let’s end this, he thinks, lining it up with the smooth, cool length of his arm, where a large vein pulses under his fingers - strong, proud and confident. 

He does not deserve to live now.

He presses the fang of the metal into his skin and feels the strange cold object digging in. Yet, it feels all too familiar once again, the memories of his past flooding back and filling him with nostalgia, the melancholy of it all.

Before the nocuous edge can sink in any deeper, however, it is knocked out of his hand and Yuuri is tackled to the ground - away from the blades, as he hears clatter some distance away - before being pulled tight to someone.

He breathes in the warmth of Viktor’s jacket - the cotton that he’s able to trace around, understand the intricate patterns of weaved fabric smoothed over by well-wear and time. It is, after all, Viktor, and whatever belongs to him, Yuuri now understands, even if it is a gradual ascend.

Tiny droplets fall on his cheeks and he feels the regret - the black hole that sucks him in, embracing him with the acetous, bitter pang of guilt and the tears on his skin seem to weigh so much more. Dragging heavy trails laced with self-accusation across his face as they slip down - he doesn’t try to wipe them away; instead, he reaches for Viktor’s own eyes and caresses the tiny wrinkles at the sides, now crinkled in sorrow and the slickness of tears.

“Why are you crying?” he whispers, though he knows the answer to that question all too clearly. Viktor dips his head down to press a kiss to his forehead. His lips are chapped, flaky in the neglect of moisture and the rapidly-fading desire for self-care.

“Yuuri, promise me-“ Viktor lifts his hand up, “-that you’ll never do this again.”  
  
Yuuri feels the cool air his hand is pressed up against and grasps for something - what, exactly, is he trying to catch in his hands, what is he trying to hold on to drag down along with him?

Is he not a burden?

“You’re not a burden, and you’ll never be one,” Viktor breathes out, and Yuuri hears the slight crack in his voice as it trails off. “Promise me you’ll never touched that damned thing ever again.”

He doesn’t, ever again, even though he still wanders to the tiny drawer and pulls it open just to feel for the little packet with the reassurance that someday, if things are too much, he can rely on the tiny pieces of metal to help him along.

~~~~~~

The house feels cold.

Empty.

Yuuri sits in the bedroom, alone, staring into the abyss of darkness. He replays songs from his skating career over and over, feeling the beat resonate deep within him, like a finger tracing the carvings of all-too-familiar patterns and shapes weaved into his bones. Like a finger carding through strands of memories that are moving further away from him - with the knowledge he may never be able to relive these moments ever again.

His skating career is ruined.

He can’t see. His eyes have failed him, and now, they sit in their sockets waiting to be revived and stretched to recovery, even though it is so blatantly obvious it will not, ever, happen. He can’t see the tears Viktor lets free in front of him. He can’t see the snow that the breeze carries across the city, kissing each and every brick and branch and board it touches with a hint of almost too-cold brush.

His other senses have heightened, however, and he can feel the voices within Viktor’s clenched jaws, feel the screams and shouts caged within him, feel the emotions being laid bare in front of him. Feel the turgidity of cold pressed into him when he steps into the balcony with Viktor beside him.

Most of all, he feels the deadly silence that echoes too loudly in his ears at night, when Viktor is asleep and all he hears is the ringing of opalescent stillness. It is supposed to be beautiful, a moment of peace that pervades, percolates throughout his body, but now he cannot feel anything but sorrow.

Each day is repetitive and he soon grows used to the sullen mass that clings to his heart and envelopes it, much like an impregnable piece of armour that has grown just a bit too tight, too heavy for his liking. Viktor feels it too, tries to pry it away from the pulsing core that he has fallen in rhythm to, fails, tries again.

He never stops.

The dead weight that clings to his feet like metal shackles dig sharp wounds into his skin. Sorrow, pity - and for what?  
  
Now that he thinks about it, it has all been about him. It’s his skating career that’s ruined, his subfusc, aqueous black hole that drags them down, his desire to wake his eyes up from their wounded state and let him see again.

It’s selfish, when he thinks about it.

So, so selfish of him.

Viktor tells him, over and over, that he is perfect, he is worthy of everything that he is having now, but he is not convinced.

Never will he be.

He is selfish.

~~~~~~

The doctors hand him a white cane.

They teach him how to use it to get about, and suddenly, with the new information about the things around him - in front of him, behind him, beside him - he is overwhelmed. For days he’s been living in the pitch darkness, fed on the dull, murky colours of feelings he has learnt to perceive.

He allows a smile on his dry, cold lips, and he senses Viktor’s turning up against his shirt as he nuzzles into his sleeve, too.

~~~~~~

Yuri calls him one day.

“Hey, katsudon.”  
  
“Hello, Yurio.”  
  
He hears a barely-suppressed sigh on the other end of the phone, feeling Yuri wince at the nickname, and chuckles.

“How- How’re things?”

Yuuri is taken aback.

“I- uh, everything’s doing fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

He knows Yuri doesn’t believe him.

“I’m serious! V-Viktor does all the housework at home, and he’s taking good care of himself, and Makkachin’s still as lively as ever-“ He knows he’s rambling, but it’s the best he can do to prevent anyone from worrying, especially if Mila and Georgi and Yakov and Lilia are somehow listening on the other end, too.

“I don’t care about the stupid dog or that old man, idiot,” Yuri spits out. “I’m asking how you’re doing.”  
  
Oh.

How stupid of him, really. How stupid, idiotic, dumb.

“I-I’m doing fine,” he croaks out, because he knows it isn’t true, but he’s got to put on that mask for everyone else, right? “The white cane’s helping me a lot.”

He realises he’s added one too many “I” pronouns, and he can’t help but think, how selfish of me.

“Well.” He catches the slight falter in Yuri’s voice. “If you need anything, don’t hesitate to call any one of us. You’re important to that old man and to the skating group, so just tell us if you need anything, okay, katsudon?”

Yuri tries to spit that chunk of words out like it’s a vile curse and he’s about to bash someone up with that tone of his, but Yuuri can’t help but notice the underlying concern that curls around his voice like a gentle vine of delicate petals.

  
“Thank you, Yurio,” he tells him. Yuri grunts, clearly annoyed by the whole prospect of the nickname-calling, but just before he hangs up, he swears he hears the teenager whisper something into the phone.  
  
“…please, take care.”

~~~~~~

It sends a chill up his skin and makes goosebumps flare across his back.

He sets the phone down on the small table beside the couch.

So he’s made everyone worried, huh.

He’s made Viktor tired, made the Russian skaters worry, made so many people raise their concerns about him, huh.

Everything is about him now, everything is about his health, mental and physical. 

He taps the cane on the floorboards beneath his feet. It echoes a clear bang across the room, sending tiny vibrations up his feet and snaking their way into muscle carved by the mysterious light and tones of skating and ballet.

How selfish of him, huh.

He hears the door click open and Viktor’s familiar footsteps thudding in with takeout rustling in plastic bags dangling from his hands.

How selfish of him.

~~~~~~

The skaters at the rink decide to visit him after the phone call he had with Yuri.

Viktor’s in the kitchen, washing up and clearing the dishes away while Yuuri does his stretches in the living room, feeling tense muscles pulling at his legs, when the door is slammed with a barrage of fists and shouts. Makkachin’s up in an instant and barks at the door.

“Coming!” he hears Viktor call and pad across to unlock the door.

He hears a babble of noises and shouts and questions.

Why’re they here, he asks deep within him and tries to curl up in a corner of the couch, but he can already feel the gaze of three other Russian skaters fixed on him, bleeding into him and searching for his heart. It’s like he’s eaten glass transparent enough to turn his own stomach to a greenhouse, nursing raw tension and emotion for everyone to admire from the outside.

It does not feel good.

“Hey, katsudon,” he hears Yuri call and he raises his head ever so slightly, just to get a better sense of his surroundings. The bandage around his eyes chafe against his temples and he winces.

“We got some of your favourite strawberries and stuff like that.”  
  
The toxin in his voice has faded, somehow, perhaps he’s gotten a filter to stop the acid from pouring out of his mouth. But no, not really, he spots genuine concern in the words Yuri speaks, and he wishes he can be left alone. He doesn’t want anyone worrying about him.

“I’ll come to the table later,” he mumbles. The acrid feeling in his stomach is churning and he knows his stomach has truly turned to glass, baring its screaming voice out to the world to see.

“All right, I’ll go first,” is what Yuri claims he’ll do, but Yuuri can still feel the ropes tightening in the air, the friction of his presence lingering and brushing against him. He knows Yuri is there, eyebrows set low above his sea-green eyes, watching him. He sighs.

“I’ll come.” He stands up, reaches for his white cane. He feels the vibrations under his feet as Yuri hurries over to grab his arm. Directing him around. He’s grateful, sure, but there is a sort of impatience in the teenager’s grip as he nearly drags him into the kitchen. He drops his white cane along the way, but Yuri tells him to leave it - rendering him disoriented, unaware of the world around him, and he feels hopeless, helpless.

No, it’s about me again, isn’t it, he thinks to himself. Stop being such a draggy person, stop being whiny, stop being a burden.

He shrugs Yuri off and bends down to feel for his cane.

“What’re you doing?” Yuri hisses, tapping his fingers on Yuuri’s arm and tugging at it. Yuuri flinches at the contact, even though just a moment ago Yuri’s fingernails were digging into his skin like Makkachin’s untrimmed claws, and draws away.

“I’m trying to find my cane.”

“Like I said, leave it-“  
  
Yuuri’s fingers brush against a small pole and he grabs it, relieved at the reorientation, and straightens himself.

“It’s fine, really,” he snaps, prodding at the ground with the cane. “I don’t need you to help me with such trivial things. I can manage.”  
  
It comes out much more bitter than he’d intended it to sound - perhaps even more vitriolic, stinging than Yuri’s words. He senses the boy wince.

“I- Whatever, just don’t kick over a plant or something.”

He hears the hurt in his voice, hears him bustle into the kitchen, hears the questioning voices of the Russians in the room.

_Shit._

When he shuffles into the room, he senses the air grow cold and the other three pairs of fully-functional eyes staring at him.  
  
“Is everything all right?” he hears Mila’s soft voice permeate the room, and swears he hears Yuri mutter a remark back at her.

“Yeah,” he says to the air in front of him and reaches for a chair to sit. Viktor rushes to help him - this time, with warmth embracing him, patient and slow and understanding. Yuuri struggles not to lean into him and stay there, where he feels protected and loved.

  
Instead, he smiles to Viktor’s jumper before peeling away from him and sitting down.

“Here.” The base of a bowl scrapes against the table and touches his arm. He tilts his head towards the sound. “Strawberries.”  
  
He reaches into the ceramic bowl and finds a heap of small fruits in it, along with a pile of something wet.

“And whipped cream. Viktor told us how you loved it, so we got it from the store on the way from the rink.”  
  
Strawberries and cream, huh. He picks up a fruit and dips it against the soft pile that sinks under its touch, then lifts it to his lips and takes a bite.

It’s sweet. There’s the tang of sour, too, but it is covered by the fresh crunch of cream under his tongue. He chews, playing with the strands of fibre and tiny seeds that coat its skin, feeling it go stale after one too many times of working his jaws on it.

He hears the others talk and he joins in, but there is a sort of emptiness in the speech he lets free from his lungs, like he isn’t supposed to be there in the first place. Soon, his voice fades away from the excited babble of the kitchen, and he toys with the seeds embedded in their spots on the smooth surface of the strawberries.

Even after he’s finished the fruits and cream, he sits there, listening to the words that hang around in the room, trying to make sense of what they’re speaking. He’s sitting in the kitchen, with the skaters and his beloved, but he is not there - rather, he’s wandering on a modulus graph, walking on and on and on but somehow, he can’t find the vertex. He can’t find the turning point, and he’s stuck in an endless search for freedom and a change of air.

Soon, the conversations end, and they’re standing up and he’s saying goodbye to Mila and Yuri, along with Viktor, who wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him tight to him. He’s closing the door, he’s pushing Viktor away from him, claiming he can do it, he can do something this trivial and minor by himself, he doesn’t need help.

His grip on the white cane tightens as he navigates himself across the apartment, into their bedroom, and onto the soft blankets. He hears Viktor behind him - somehow, he has the feeling he’s crying once more, but tells himself that he’s proved to be less of a burden, that Viktor has no reason to cry.

(His suspicions are confirmed when he reaches for Viktor’s fringe and finds the beautiful eyes underneath swollen and wet with tears.

“Oh, Yuuri,” Viktor whispers and breaks down once more. “Please, stop treating yourself this way.”

He nods, even though he’s not sure if Viktor can see him, but he feels a hand snake up his cheek and pull his face closer to the warm body next to him. He feels lips being pressed against his, and he kisses back, allowing himself just one moment of indulgence, feeling the familiar warmth creep up his spine, feeling sparks bursting within his heart, and then pulls away before he gives in.

He doesn’t deserve it, after all - he’s a burden.

That night, he feels anything but Viktor’s shattering heart, feels anything but Viktor’s tears slipping down already salt-stained cheeks, feels anything but the deep, echoing hole in Viktor’s heart.)

~~~~~~

A few days later, Yuuri finds himself lost in the bustling centre of St. Petersburg.

Honestly, he has no idea why he’s there. One moment, he’s out walking with Viktor, immersed in his voice, whispering descriptions of shops and comments about the lights being hung out in the trees and across street lights, the next he’s all by himself, standing in the middle of a crowded shopping area.

His heart speeds up, blood racing across his mind and flooding it with panic. He tells himself to calm down, to take deep breaths, to politely ask someone about his whereabouts, but his body refuses to comply.

He feels sweat beading on his forehead and temples, the bone-chilling tremors filling him, and he knows he’s on the brink of collapsing.

He tries calling out for Viktor, hoping somehow, he’ll magically appear in front of him and hug him tight. A hoarse croak escapes his lips instead.

_Please, help me, anyone, please._

He feels for something in front of him, but all he taps on with his white cane is gravel. There’s nothing he understands about his surroundings; if he could see, he would, might, be able to figure out some simple signs from around him and phone Viktor to find him.

Now, however, he’s got his useless self standing in the middle of nowhere.

He feels eyes staring at him, scanning him, analysing him. 

He needs to get out of there - fast.

“Viktor?” he calls out in a tentative attempt to find his fiance, but all he feels again is the attention drawn to him and questioning murmurs being shared between passers-by all around. 

Someone comes up to him and taps his arm - he jerks from the contact, but doesn’t move otherwise.

“Тебé нужнá моя́ пóмощь?” he asks. The gears churn and turn in Yuuri’s mind, trying his hardest to translate it - he’s sure he’s heard it somewhere, sometime in the past.

“I, uh- Да.”

The stranger holds onto his arm and begins to tug him away from the crowd, much to Yuuri’s relief. The shouts and chatter of the centre was getting to his mind.

It gets quieter, calmer - the hustle and bustle fading away from his ears.

Wait.

No.

It isn’t supposed to be this quiet.

He starts to pull away from the stranger, but the grip on his arm only tightens and so does the panic in his heart. 

_Viktor, where are you?_

_Help._

_Help me._

_Please._

“Where are you taking me?” he yells to the air, trying his best to wring his arm away from the stranger. “What do you want?”  
  
Then he hears a thud, the fingers releasing his arm.

Yuuri stands there in confusion.

“не трогай мой жених никогда снова,” he hears a voice - the familiar warmth of Viktor’s voice - snarling at the stranger. 

“Oh, my dear Yuuri.”

Then he feels someone pulling him close to them and kissing him - the familiar taste of Viktor’s lips, pressing against his own, and he cannot help but melt into it.

When they pull apart, Yuuri begins to cry.

“I’m so sorry for making you worry, Viktor,” he sobs, burying his face into Viktor’s coat. He’s all right now, he’s safe, he’s with Viktor.

“It’s not your fault, Солнышко, it was mine for losing you.” Yuuri hears the tears in his voice and breaks down all over again.

Viktor whispers soothing words over and over into Yuuri’s hair, kissing the top of his head, stroking his back.

“I’ll make sure I’ll never lose you again, Yuuri.”

~~~~~~

When they get home, Viktor tackles Yuuri into a hug. He nuzzles his face into Viktor’s chest, feels the coarse stubble on his chin that he hasn’t bothered to shave off, feels his collarbone dipping into his neck, feels the strong thump of his heart against his cheeks. He rests a palm over it, drinking in the colourful pulse, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

“Hey, Viktor?”

“Hm?”  
  
He lingers above his words for a bit, trying to figure out which to pick, which to take and phrase into a string that does not sound too harsh, too hurting. He’s been doing that a lot lately, he notes, and he tries to stop himself from pushing the limits too far.

“I-If I were to be blind for the rest of my life, Viktor-“  
  
He is shushed by Viktor’s finger pressing against his mouth.

“No talking about that kind of things, Yuuri - you know it won’t happen,” he chides softly, breathing into Yuuri’s hair. Yuuri likes it - the feel of Viktor’s soft breaths filling him with warmth and love.

“But would you still love me if it does happen?”  
  
He feels Viktor sigh, pushing him away just a bit to adjust his posture on the bed.

“Yuuri,” he says, serious. “You were the one who lit up my life and taught me how to love and live properly.”

He reaches up and cups Yuuri’s face, brushing a calloused thumb against his cheek, and Yuuri leans into the contact.

“If that ever happens, I will do the same for you - I will be the one to light up your path, stand by you all the way, make sure that you continue to remember how to love and live like you taught me to.”

He knows Viktor can’t see the tears gathering in his eyes and lets them spill, soaked up by the thick bandage curling around his eyes.

“I’ll do anything for you, Yuuri, and that includes loving you forever, no matter what happens.”

~~~~~~

He doesn’t expect it - he’s never thought that the day might come, even if the doctors try to persuade him that it will.

The change is gradual, the only thing he sees when he opens his eyes the next morning a dim olive grey, much like the darkness that envelopes him each day when he wakes up, but perhaps it is just a bit brighter than the usual pitch black he sees. Perhaps, not. He shakes off the feeling, though, and continues fumbling around for his white cane.

Then, as he steps into the bathroom, the dim grey lifts to reveal a few spots of light filtering through to meet his eyes where they are. Maybe it’s his imagination, his hallucinations about his sight - he’s had those, so it’s not all that strange - but perhaps it feels just a bit more real than the usual illusions he sees. Perhaps, not. He shrugs off the feeling and continues brushing his teeth.

The spots of light turn to something else the next few hours - he swears he can see the slight tinge of yellow in the light that peeps through the bandages. Perhaps it feels just a bit more vibrant than the sunlight he dreams of in his sleep. Perhaps, not.

Perhaps, yes.

_Viktor peels off the bandage to clean around his eyes in the bathroom and is startled by the yelp he receives when he does so._

_And he is sure the brown eyes that usually dart around aimlessly, dull and uninterested, are now focused on him._

Months have gone by since Yuuri last saw the leaping streaks of colour and light, and the sudden reintroduction to his eyes are a strain on them.

Wait.

He can see?  
  
Yuuri swallows a gasp and a scream of utter shock when he realises what has happened.

But most importantly-

He looks up.

-in front of him stands the man he loves with the entirety of his soul and heart, the man who has stayed by him all this while, never breaking the promise they share, never leaving his side for, perhaps, something less of a burden to him.

“Viktor,” he breathes, taking in each and every detail he can pick up from Viktor’s face while squinting against the light - no matter that his myopia’s still present, blurring out the tiniest of detail, it doesn’t matter - and starts crying.

It’s too much for him to handle.

“Oh, Yuuri, your sight is back,” he hears through the tears that cloud his long-lost and finally regained vision, and leans into the arms that hold him protectively to Viktor’s chest.

“I can see, Viktor, I can see,” he chokes out, wiping at his eyes and blinking once, twice, thrice, just to make sure it isn’t a fluke, that it isn’t some sort of temporary miracle that would disappear in a fleeting moment.

“And you didn’t leave all this while?”  
  
“Never. You’re my love, Yuuri, why would I have abandoned you for suddenly losing your sight?”  
  
“I-I wasn’t a burden?”  
  
“I said, Yuuri, you’re not a burden, and you never will.”  
  
“I- Thank you, Viktor.”

**Author's Note:**

> Here's some notes:
> 
> Тебé нужнá моя́ пóмощь? - do you need help?  
> Да - yes  
> не трогай мой жених никогда снова - don't touch my fiance ever again  
> Солнышко - my sun (affectionate nickname)
> 
> Some are semi-reliable, some are from Google Translate, so please do tell me if they're actually correct.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! 5460 (or so) words - written out, displayed to the world, done. This is my first attempt at all-out angst, so do give some tips and stuff like that if you find it not-so-good (which it is, so, yeah)!
> 
> (this is also probably because of my anxiety and self-hatred because oh god am I selfish)
> 
> Come find me on tumblr @silentdroplets and tell me if you make anything! Love you guys :D Thank you, and have a great day or night ahead of you!


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